


Stay

by IAgainstI



Category: SpongeBob SquarePants (Cartoon)
Genre: Blood and Torture, Captivity, Gen, Kidnapping, Obsession
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-28
Updated: 2018-09-28
Packaged: 2019-07-18 18:20:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 3,764
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16124117
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IAgainstI/pseuds/IAgainstI
Summary: It didn't take much to realize the mild obsession SpongeBob had with him, and secretly he enjoyed it; at least someone adored him. But when he walked through the door of that damned pineapple, 'mild' was soon realized to be a understatement, and Squidward would learn he was more than adored.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I always loved SpongeBob growing up, but never had any desire to write a fic for it. That is, until I saw the episode "Squid's Visit" forever ago, and thought it had the potential to be something...different. Darker. 
> 
> So, here's my take on the episode.

There was no room for rationalizing.

Squidward simply couldn't wrap his head around how he'd done it, capturing every minute detail of the interior of his home, down to the barely noticeable chip in the wall from when he'd moved in. This was something that had taken time, and he wondered how long it took, how much money was devoted to this twisted project. It had almost made him admire the boy, if only for a split second. Even he, as an artist, had not paid this much attention to detail.

He could hear the younger man's laugh carry through the house as he ventured slowly, quietly, throughout what was essentially his own home. But it wasn't. It was like something out of a dream—a nightmare, really—something so deceivingly familiar, yet haunting. Sinister. Fear crept up his back, raising his flesh, and he couldn't help but feel as though he were in danger.

He knew SpongeBob's childlike mindset would lead him to believe this was something endearing, in no way alarming, but something was off. That he couldn't deny. His neighbor had seemed over eager, more so than usual, to have him over finally after years of refusal. SpongeBob went so far as to steal the vacuum cleaner right from under his nose, and when he'd done it, he wasn't sure. Then again, he wasn't even sure when this construction project had began and he supposed he should start paying more attention to the yellow skinned boy.

Squidward came to a door at the end of the hall, what he assumed was a closet, and swung it open, reaching in blindly for the piece of equipment and was met with a handful of nothing. Cool air and silence.

Hesitantly, he forced himself to peer into the darkened space and felt along the wall for a switch, and flicked it upward, heart racing as the bulbs powered on and inch by inch lit the room.

He stopped in the center of the room, turning his body around and around to view the paintings that covered every inch of the walls.

"Oh, my...he copied them. All 492 of them," He whispered to himself. A sudden sickness washed over him and he collapsed onto the floor, his knees hitting the soft fabric of a throw rug, and after moving his body backward, realized his face was stitched perfectly into the material. It was all perfect, everything, even the statue.

He was in over his head, he realized, being here with his seemingly eccentric neighbor. He needed to get out. And fast.

Squidward took a deep breath and steadied himself before continuing his search for the stolen vacuum, and found the appliance tucked away in a closet, hidden from view behind a tall house plant.

"Great. Now I can get out of here," He mumbled, exhaling a calming breath, and tugged at the handle, expecting it to lift with ease. It didn't, and the more he pulled, the more his frustration grew, and in a final attempt, exerted all the strength he could muster.

The machine didn't budge, but he certainly had, flinging back toward the wall as his hands slipped from the handle's rubber grip. His head bounced hard off the wall, and within a mere minutes time, was unconscious.

Small feet shuffled down the hall toward the limp body and a smile—toothy and bright—spread across the younger man's lips. Everything had gone according to plan, though not exactly as planned, but the end result he desired was achieved.

It was time.


	2. Chapter 2

The warm breeze brought with it the choking smell of smoke, and immediately his eyes opened, scanning his surroundings for the source of the flame. Frantically he twisted and writhed, escape on the brain, and soon realized his movements were all but fruitless. Layers of duct tape restrained him to the hard surface of a table, propped up so that he could view the fire from the window. The silver tape chafed against his skin, rubbing it raw, adding to his discomfort.

Discomfort quickly turned to gut wrenching despair as the realization set in that, the pyre that grew with every moment, its flames licking the bright blue sky, casting embers into the air like black snow, came from his home.

Everything he worked for was burning to the ground. Every painting, every sculpture. His clarinet.

"No, no, no..." The man murmured, salty tears blurring his vision. He was helpless; left to observe his world fall away before him, with no voice to cry out for aid.

The screeching of sirens blared outside on the road below, just out of his line of view. He couldn't see them, but he could make out their faint voices, shouting over the sounds, calling out for him, though he was nowhere to be found. They'd most likely assume he was dead, an indistinguishable pile of ash in the wreckage.

He looked around, vaguely recognizing the room. It was SpongeBob's bedroom; the only space that hadn't been altered to look like his house.

His house that crumbled just a short distance away. Squidward could hear their yelling now, louder than before, as chunks of stone crashed to the sandy ground below. A heavy thud rocked the earth, and he shook under his restraints, the table threatening to topple just like his home.

Squidward wept then, conceding there was nothing left that he could do. His body felt weak, riddled with aches and pains. Eyes glanced down at his arms and legs, covered with ugly bruises that discolored his pale flesh.

As the chaos raged on outside, he sank against the table top, sighing through the tears and closed his eyes.

The lock clicked and the bedroom door slowly opened, the boy's pet gliding across the floor, mewling at his owner. His neighbor laughed, that high-pitched, annoying sound that grated on his nerves, now sent fear through him. He felt it deep in his bones, poisoning his marrow with every negative emotion that roiled within him.

A flick against his nose, a playful gesture in any other situation, caused him to recoil. The boy tsked.

"Now, now; don't be like that," SpongeBob admonished him, shaking his head. The boy stared down at his snail. "You'd think he'd be a little more friendly after all that I've done! All the work I put into this house...Squidward, you're going to have to work on that attitude."

"After all that you've done? SpongeBob, what good have you done? You lunatic, tying me to a table, remodeling your home to look like mine. Did you light the fire, too? I bet you did," he couldn't suppress his anger, even as he realized what a disadvantage he was in. He couldn't help it.

The boy's smile was waning, lip quivering as he stared at his captive. Yellow fingers curled tightly into his small palm, and he forced them to remain there. To refuse his anger to get the better of him. Instead of reaching out and harming the man before him, he dragged a chair over from the corner and placed it in front of the table. Clearing his throat, he sat down.

"I understand how you might feel...peeved," Something in the boy's voice sounded different. Was it deeper? Squidward thought, and then nodded slightly. He sounded far less childish than usual. "But you have to understand, Squidward, I did this for you. Do you know how many times I had to beg Mr. Krabs for a raise just to be able to purchase some of this stuff?" He shuddered. "I did awful things. For you," He repeated, emphasizing the words. Digging them in.

"I worked so long to get here, and if it weren't for Patrick, well, I wouldn't have the luxury of seeing you this way. Who'd have thought that idiot would think of something so obvious, yet so brilliant?" Squidward's eyes widened at the insult the boy directed at his supposed best friend. His perception was unraveling, slowly, and he didn't like at all what was being revealed.

The boy's leg bounced, and Squidward watched as he picked at the hem of his shirt, which for the first time, was untucked. Wrinkled. Dark blotches were dispersed randomly on the fabric, and he tried not to think of what they might be. He focused on his slim chances of escaping, mustering all his dry wit and charm, and formulating a plot in his mind that he hoped was feasible.

How hard could getting someone deranged to release you, and sit back in guilt over what they'd done while you run for the hills be?

_Very_ , he thought to himself. _Very, very hard_.

Squidward wasn't sure what the boy was capable of, and he didn't want to test his limits. The younger man, however, wanted to test _his_.


	3. Chapter 3

SpongeBob was grateful for living on a relatively empty block. Two of the street's three occupants were under his roof and the other one—Patrick, the dolt—was under his rock. He guessed his chubby companion was immersed in his television shows, slapstick comedy he found oh so hilarious. Much as he pretended, he never saw the humor in someone getting slapped in the face with baked goods. A needle through the palm of Squidward's hands, however, brought a wide smile to his face.

The screams filled the room, his loud cries echoing in the basement of his house. SpongeBob was frustrated after having been questioned by police and the local fire department on the whereabouts of his friend. A day or two of searching concluded that there was no body left in the wreckage after the house fire. Knowing how cheap their employer was—he could hardly make payments himself—they suspected fraud.

He was given business cards and told to call if there was any news on his grumpy neighbor. There was no one else the police could have gone to. As much as Squidward liked to put the younger men down, they were the closest thing to friends he had. If only he could have just accepted him. Things would have gone so much easier.

Then again, he knew that would have never happened. One way or another, they would have wound up in this exact situation, albeit a more willing participant. Hopefully. He liked the sight of the man strung up. He liked it even more when he begged through the tape pressed against his mouth.

SpongeBob glanced at the small container on the floor. It came up to his ankles and housed a countless number of sewing needles. The man couldn't remember how many times he had ventured into the crafts store with Patrick, picking up a handful of packs each time they went in there. His friend never questioned the purchases—of all the odd little hobbies he'd taken on, sewing was never one of them. He never planned to learn. The needles had another use.

"A needle for each day that I've known you." he twirled the metal between his fingers, watching as the man's gaze flickered between his hands and the box. There had to be hundreds of them, and in Squidward, there were only six. "For each day that you crushed me for your own amusement. I tried so hard to be your friend. You were exact—well, not exactly like me," he chuckled, "but just about. I could have shown you my true colors if you'd let me. We could have been like this."

SpongeBob crossed his fingers, indicating the closeness they could have shared. Squidward wasn't sure just how close he intended them to be, and he didn't want to dwell on the possibility of being more than neighbors. With his home burned straight to the ground, they weren't even that much anymore. He was a prisoner, and the boy was his captor.

And in SpongeBob's mind, he was the only thing standing between life and death. The mediator between two worlds, and only his beloved could decide where he would end up. He would have his fun breaking him; he knew that he would. Multiple times he had tested the elder man's patience and knew what it would take to bring Squidward to his wits end. The short fuse would be burned until it was nothing more than a charred nub, and he would be there to snuff out the last of the fire inside him. He'd make sure there was nothing left.

"I never thought I'd meet someone as misanthropic as myself." SpongeBob laughed at the wide eyes that looked back at him. "Surprised that I can use words with more than five letters? I'm not as dumb as you've come to think I am, Squiddy. Do you think an idiot could have pulled this off? No, they couldn't." SpongeBob answered for him. "No one but me could have done this for you."

Venom dripped from his words. Squidward could see the malice in his cold blue eyes and feared what was coming. The last several nights had been hell—SpongeBob was cracking and could barely contain his anger. He'd taken the brunt of it, as had the interior of his house. He could hear glass cracking and the crumbling of drywall in the halls. He wondered how much time he had left before he and SpongeBob's home began to look the same. He was sure his insides were beginning to look as damaged. The bruises were too large and close in proximity that he couldn't make out the exact number. His torso looked like a Rorschach test, and all he saw in the dark pattern was death.

SpongeBob looked more stable than he had over the course of the week, and had been more gentle with him, much to his surprise. Although gentle was the wrong word, it was the closest thing he could think of to describe the way he treated him. The stinging pain from the needles was better than his fists pounding into his ribs with a shocking force. He never expected the smaller man to be able to strike him as hard as he did. SpongeBob was full of terrible surprises.

The boy kicked the box. "There's still a lot left in here. We'd better get a move on, hmm?"


	4. Chapter 4

The attic was colder than the rest of the house, even with the thermostat turned to the highest temperature it could reach. Damned thing never worked, but SpongeBob didn't mind. He loved the cold. The chill in his bones made him feel alive, but not even that matched the exhilarating high he got from hearing the older man scream.

In a way, he almost felt bad for enjoying it so much. He'd had it ingrained in his mind that violence was bad, torture was worse, and killing was absolutely vile. Technically it wasn't a bad lesson his parents tried to teach him. For the most part, adhering to those rules kept him out of prison with the exception of being placed in a home in his late teens.

SpongeBob had never told anyone, not even his so called best friend—not that telling him would have made much of a difference. There were only a small handful of words that triggered any sort of brain activity and if he hadn't said them loud and in the same high pitch coo you'd use when talking to a baby, all he'd do was drool.

He was thankful for that. As much as he enjoyed them, those dark thoughts were a heavy weight to carry. Patrick allowed him to unburden himself every now and again. He thought of all the nights he spent under that rock, mumbling to a half-asleep Patrick when the fantasies were itching to become reality.

He'd pace back and forth, acting out each stab and strangulation with the same enthusiasm he showed for flipping burgers. It was almost…fun.

Sometimes he wished there was someone to indulge in those fantasies with. The closest he had ever come to finding a truly kindred spirit was Plankton, though it was never worth the risk of revealing himself. He had spent the majority of his life creating this persona, and to shatter it for someone he could crush under his heel?

No, there had to be someone better. And there was.

He stared at the photograph nailed to the wall. He and Patrick flanked their curmudgeon neighbor, both flashing toothy grins as the elder of the three stared angrily into the lens. He remembered the day clearly.

It had been weeks after he moved into town. He hadn't left the house much. There was no pressure for him to work—his parent's paid for the house and his bills, and what little extras he needed. He only left on occasion to purchase food for himself and his pet, and on one morning in early spring, he met the man that would eventually become his best friend.

Patrick had been the first to introduce himself. He caught him at the end of the walkway, running clumsily from his rock in his direction. SpongeBob remembered his parent's words as he watched the half-naked slob jog toward him.

"Try to be more social. It's a new town; a fresh start for you. It might do you some good to finally have friends, son," his father had said.

His mother nodded in agreement. "Make an effort to fit in this time. People are quick to judge outcasts, and speak poorly of them. You've come so far, and I think you would like to avoid trouble, no? At least make one friend."

Patrick doubled over when he reached him. SpongeBob had met the man halfway, stopping in front of their neighbor's house. He took a deep breath and abandoned his scowl, and in its place came a wide, warm smile. He recalled how the muscles ached when he grinned, but he maintained the expression, and hoped the starfish wouldn't notice how it never quite reached his eyes.

Patrick was too loud for his liking. He almost considered walking away then, but he'd made a promise to his parents, and if he wanted to continue living his cushy lifestyle, he'd suffer through his company. He noticed something in his hand—a camera.

He's a photographer? He thought, looking the man up and down. He didn't strike him as the artistic type, but looks can be, and often are, deceiving. He knew that fact well.

"What's the camera for—"

Their heads had turned at the sound of a creaking door, and Patrick squealed with excitement. It was all too much; he was growing agitated, he wanted to hurt him, but he didn't. He kept his hands balled in his pockets instead.

Out of the door of the huge, stone house came Squidward. In his hands he clutched a white hat, and on his face a grimace that had rivaled his own.

The man locked the front door and headed toward them, seething as the distance between them had lessened. He studied the man as he came closer, noting the redness in his eyes and the stubble that shadowed his cheeks. His stomach bulged slightly under his polo, he guessed from poor diet, or binge drinking.

"How many times have I told you to stay off my lawn, Patrick?" he half-shouted. The man turned his gaze on him. "And who are you?"

"This is our new neighbor," Patrick answered. "I didn't catch your name, stranger."

"SpongeBob," he said.

"Well, SpongeBob, I'll tell you the same thing I told this oaf. Hopefully you're intelligent enough to understand it."

"As long as you use small words, I think I can manage," he joked.

The man sneered. "Keep off my property. If you don't, we'll have problems," he said and began walking away. "And if you're looking to make new friends, you can do better than this simpleton."

They watched the man walk away. SpongeBob was unfazed by his abrasive demeanor, even admired him for having the gall to be so blatantly rude. He had spent his years being polite and cheery to a fault in the company of others. Sure, he'd come across his fair share of uncouth individuals, but it was often hidden underneath sarcasm and passive aggressive comments.

At least this stranger had the decency to be honest about his distaste for those around him. If only he could do the same.

"Hey, who was that guy?" he asked.

Patrick looked back at him. "That's Squidward. Don't worry about him, he's always like that."

"Oh," he said, "so where's he headed?"

"The Krusty Krab. Have you been there yet? I go just about every day myself," he said proudly.

"No, but I guess I'll have to check it out, won't I?" SpongeBob watched his neighbor disappear as he turned the corner.

He wanted to know more about the older grump. Could it be that he simply was grouchy, or could he have finally found someone like himself?

They had spent the rest of the day together, opting to stay outside despite the cool weather. He hadn't wanted to miss Squidward's arrival, and when he caught sight of him, suggested Patrick finally put his camera to good use.

"You think he'd mind taking a picture?" SpongeBob asked him, sounding a little more eager than he intended.

Patrick shrugged. "He'll probably say no…but if we bug him enough he might let us."

"Well then, buddy, whaddaya say? Up for being annoying?"

It took ten minutes to get Squidward to come out of his house and take the picture. They promised to be quiet afterward and stay off his lawn like he asked. SpongeBob was sure his first impression wasn't the best one, but he didn't put too much thought into it. Perceptions can always be altered.

Gary mewled loudly, breaking him out of his reverie. He watched the snail glide back and forth between him and the door.

"What is it, boy?"

The snail yowled again. He followed his gaze to the floor.

"Something wrong downstairs?" SpongeBob asked, and headed down the attic stairs, deciding not to play the guessing game with his pet. As he crossed through the living room, something moving outside caught his attention.

He quietly edged toward the window, pulling the curtains back slightly to get a better view of the lawn. A familiar white suit hovered around the pile of ash and stone behind his house.

"Sandy?" he muttered. She turned around and paused for a moment before treading through the soot-filled sand toward his house. "Dammit."


End file.
